“What price do you hold on the ranch?” asked Hashknife.
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh ——!” gasped Hashknife weakly. “You’re old enough to know better than that, Skelton.”
Skelton nodded seriously and scratched the palms of his hands on his hips.
“Age don’t cut no ice, Hartley. This danged ranch ain’t worth more ’n eight, nine thousand, with them tombstones throwed in to boot; but I’m —— if anybody’s goin’ to run Bliz Skelton off the place! I ain’t the runnin’ kind, y’betcha. And as long as I’ve got a shell left for that old sawed-off shotgun, I ain’t goin’ t’ run; sabe?”
“Tha’s all right,” mumbled Hashknife. “You know your own capacity. What’ll we do with the dead man?”
“Take him to Caldwell, I reckon. I’ll hitch up to the wagon. I suppose Jake Blue and Doc. Clevis’ll have a —— of a lot of questions to ask now.”
“Who’re they?” asked Sleepy.
“Sheriff and coroner.”
Skelton stopped in the doorway and looked back.